


Face Value

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Batdad, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, batfamily, not a happy ending but not a sad one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:46:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: What they are is a work in progress. Even as they destroy each other, the pieces are always grasped close. After all, broken art is still art.(In which Damian and Bruce fight even when they're not fighting. Family dysfunction with chocolate sauce.)





	Face Value

The light was on. 

This was not an extraordinary fact; indeed, Damian often spent the nights up and about. Bruce used to worry, but the child’s schedule was an organized chaos. The last time he tried to enforce a bedtime, Damian had stayed up for days just to spite him. 

The man sighed. He used to be an unrelenting match to his children. Damian always knew which buttons to push and then slither away back to his protective rock. He was a bit like Tim, in that way. No matter what you tried with that boy, threats, rewards, logic–he would not concede. Tim would take his secrets to the grave, stubbornly buried under his tongue. 

If Damian did not wish to cooperate, no progress would happen. 

It often felt like a tug of war. A race between the tortoise and hare, fighting to gain a foothold within Damian’s mind. Slow and steady, pick up speed, think you’re safe and suddenly the ground is yanked out from under you.  

Damian was good at yanking parts of himself away from Bruce’s grasp.  
Yet he pretended. Oh, how clever the boy thought he was. He stepped upon the stage and avoided the lights, smiling and waving his hand at precisely the right moment. 

Quite a little actor. 

But how does one convince an actor to come down from the stage?

Bruce’s hand paused on the doorknob. The crickets echoed from beyond the wooden door. 

The window was open. 

He knocked softly, swinging the door open. His gaze fell upon his twelve year old son sitting atop a stool. His feet still didn’t touch the ground. 

“Father,” Damian greeted, not looking away from his canvas. 

Bruce nodded in acknowledgement, standing back and observing. The child’s brush strokes were fluid, well learned and indicative of impeccable technique. The brush swirled, splaying a jasmine flower across the surface. 

“It’s quite realistic,” Bruce offered after a long moment.

Damian almost snorted. “Hardly,” he replied. “The paint is thick enough to render this 3D. I’ll soon be able to propose this as the new summer blockbuster." 

"Watch out, Spielberg." 

"Quite." 

They shared a smile. 

Bruce lowered his eyes first, lingering over the many tools littering his son’s desk. "You have quite a collection,” he commented lightly. He took note to remove the toxic minerals from the child’s pile. Damian knew the rules; no explosives or poisons above the cave. 

Damian hesitated, brush slowing. “I like working with my hands,” his son finally shrugged. 

The man tilted his head. “I see.”

A breeze wafted through the window, washing the room with the scent of jasmine. 

The boy halted.

Bruce noticed. 

“Tim appraised me of your idea,” he began, tone pleasant despite his sharp eyes. “I think an animal shelter therapy unit in the inner city is an excellent resource for children suffering from PTSD.”

Damian hummed, but the brush began moving again. 

Bruce continued, drawing near. “Tim suggested that you could use this as your first press conference.”

“And you know my opinion on that matter.”

“I do. And I know Tim’s.”

“Then I suppose I should prepare a speech.” The brush strokes were a tad agitated. 

Bruce frowned. “I did not say that,” he said slowly. He moved closer, leather shoes not making a sound against the carpet. “I am always open to your thoughts. I would never force you into a publicity stunt if it made you uncomfortable, Damian." 

The brush slipped, spilling outside the appointed lines. 

Damian half-laughed, pitching the brush back onto its slot. "I appreciate the sentiment, Father.” He leaned back, observing the art piece. “Pity.” He stood and began deconstructing the canvas, ripping the edge. 

Bruce’s brow furrowed. His son was destroying a beautiful piece over one small mistake. 

“Wait. Wait, Damian." 

The twelve year old stopped, looking up at his father expectantly. 

Bruce suddenly felt very singular in his child’s eyes. ”…You should not destroy it,“ he told him slowly. "It’s an excellent piece." 

"Was an excellent piece,” Damian reminded him. “It’s no longer perfect." 

"It doesn’t need to be perfect." 

Damian shook his head and continued dismantling. 

_Riiiiip_.

"It’s still good, Damian,” Bruce protested. 

“Father, while I applaud your viewpoint on the mess of creation that is modern art, I assure you that it is not.”

“Do not destroy it." 

His voice was strident, firm. It echoed in the room. 

The boy stopped. His hands near vibrated with his grip upon the canvas. "Oh?” he asked evenly. 

It wasn’t a question. 

It was a test. 

A war.

Bruce repressed a deep sigh. 

It always was a war with Damian. 

The father wanted to shed some positive light upon the boy’s work. Dick had suggested it (among the recent times) over lunch. 

“He’s really hard on himself,” the young man informed him while chewing on a panini. 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bruce scolded, rolling his eyes heavenward. 

Dick shot him a look but thankfully reprised. “Just tell him his work is well done.”

“And if it’s not?" 

"It’s not like he asks to be compared to Da Vinci or Ford. Just take it at face value. Take it at Damian value." 

The only problem was that Damian did not see his value. 

The child was presently still boring holes into his father, mouth straight and grim.

Bruce would illustrate his value to his son. 

"Finish it,” he prompted gently, nudging the piece. 

Damian was unmoved. 

“No.”

The man raised a brow. “You must see your work through,” he announced, nudging a small smile at the boy.

Please, he just wanted his son to see. 

“Damian?" 

Damian was silent. 

Fine. 

"Damian, you have created a masterful piece. The form and color are well-done. It would be a waste to destroy it. You are going to finish your work,” he stated firmly. “Understand?" 

The twelve year looked at him with those solid eyes of blue fire.

Bruce did not waver.

The boy then took the canvas and set it upright once more. He brought his hand up, fingertips barely gracing the material. 

And gouged it.

_Thud thud thud_ went the paintbrush, each hole burrowing deeper and wider.

Bruce gritted his teeth. He stood back and watched his son single-handedly destroy the jasmine rendition. 

Beauty and destruction, wrapped into one. 

He closed his eyes, ears ringing with each _thud_.

It was only until the canvas was fully destroyed and could no longer sit straight did Damian stop.

He slipped off the stool, small, calloused hands wrapping around his artwork.

The child handed the flimsy piece over to his father. 

Bruce gazed down, holes and tears withering in his grasp. 

Yanked away again.

"Finished." 

The man’s gaze snapped to his son. "Thank you,” he murmured after a moment. 

The child’s brow furrowed. He shifted, suddenly on new ground. Damian knew tactics, strategy, expectations. 

He did not know value. 

“You’re…welcome,” he replied haltingly, slightly ashamed. His face was stone, void of expression; however, the pinkness in his nose belied his penitence. “I…" 

He stopped and cleared his throat.

Damian withdrew, pushing the window closed.

The jasmine disappeared.


End file.
